A Chance to Cure Obsession
by Ash M. Knight
Summary: Batman is given a chance to cure obsession, and it's the Joker who suffers. First person drabble.


There are thousands of people globally who suffer from obsessive compulsive disorder. Obsession, with anything, is a symptom of this. Now, just because you're obsessed with something doesn't necessarily mean that you have obsessive compulsive disorder, but it's certainly a sign. An obsession - a REAL obsession - is difficult to shake. I, for example, am obsessed with justice.

Often times when an individual with a family is addicted to drugs, the family suffers as well. Not only do they suffer because of what their child is going through, but they suffer with their own disorder. For many family members - especially the mother - the issue is that they, too, become addicted to dealing with the illness of the loved one.

For me, my addiction is fighting crime. Lame, right? At least it actually helps people. It's a good thing for them, but - according to my shrink, anyway - for me, it's a tragedy. Now, I personally don't see anything wrong with this. Apparently, that makes me crazy. But back to my original point. . .

There are thousands of people globally who suffer from obsessive compulsive disorder. How many of them, do you think, actually get to SATISFY that need, that longing, that lust for gratification? For example, someone obsessed with trains has the chance to see every single one ever made. This is both impossible and unheard of. To give another example, for a germaphobe to have the satisfaction of knowing that every germ in the universe has been destroyed. Again, this is impossible. It just doens't happen that way.

Tonight, I had the chance to face my obsession and end it once and for all. Not by ignoring it, but by actually facing it and destroying it. He was hanging off the side of the building, his knuckles white from gripping the side too hard. I could have crushed his tiny bones with my boots and sent him crashing to the pavement below. I could have just walked away and let him slip away from the edge. I could have watched his body shatter as his bones all cracked on impact.

He wasn't even laughing. He just stared up at me with those stupid green eyes of his and looked at me. He didn't say anything at all. He didn't plead with me. He didn't laugh at me. He didn't let go. He just froze like hot ice and stared at me, sweat dripping down from his forehead. His wait face paint was washed away at the top where the stream of sweat began, and it looked as if his mask was peeling away. The drips of his sweat washed over his eyes and make the black makeup there drip like tears. But he wasn't crying.

I couldn't hear him breathing over the roar of the wind, but I could tell his chest was heaving. Even for the man with no fear, facing death undeniably will make your heart race and your body freeze up. Fight-or-flight response is biologically impossible to avoid, but the Joker was stuck there like some dumb animal. He couldn't run or hit me or move or dodge any of my blows. He was vulnerable - cut wide open like some pig at a slaughterhouse. And boy, was he dripping his guts everywhere.

The sweat on his hands made him start to slip, and one hand finally let go of the ledge. Still, he didn't say anything. He wanted no help, no mercy from me. I desired compliance from him and he asked nothing of me in return. My head and heart were telling me to kick the poor bastard over the edge before he had a chance to pull himself up, but I could see that this wasn't possible. Another moment and he would simply slip away and fall to the ground at a velocity of gravity (nine point two meters per second) multiplied by time minus the resistance force of the wind. In my head, I saw his gritty, sinful body falling fast down to the busy street below, but in real life, I reached out and grabbed his arm to pull him over.

His hand was sweating so profusely I could feel the moisture through my glove. It was revolting. I wanted to let go and run into a chemical shower. I couldn't even believe how dirty and disgusting he was. It was like he hadn't taken a bath for a week - or longer. Which is what I didn't get. His clothes were spotless. They were hand tailored to fit him perfectly. Pressed neatly. Clean. But him? Covered in dirt and paint and what I assumed to be blood. It was horrendous.

As if he were some disgusting vermin, I dropped him the instant he was safely over the side. Still, he just stared at me. Collapsed into a sweaty, pathetic heap, he just kept looking up at me. And then he fucking cried. The bastard fucking sat there and cried like some stupid girl. "You were going to leave me there," he whimpered, just loud enough so I could hear him over the wind. I couldn't believe what he was telling me. He didn't even care that he could have died. He just cared that I was going to walk away and let him die without a second thought.

Talk about disturbing. I thought I was going to vomit all over the rooftop. And still, just STARED at me! It was awful. I left him there, like that. I still don't know what's worse: leaving him there alone, or the fact that I almost let him drop to his death. In any case, after about seven or eight xanax, I should probably hit the sack. Big day tomorrow. Wayne Enterprises is buying Microsoft.


End file.
